


not so easily erased

by writerdragonfly



Series: like permanent ink carved in our hearts [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Hospitals, M/M, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, OC Character Death, Panic Attacks, Self Defense, Stabbing, Strangulation, Takes place over three days, unlawful restraint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerdragonfly/pseuds/writerdragonfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles protects his own. The blood on his hands this time though, is not so easily erased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> The warning for graphic depictions of violence is likely unnecessary, but I'd like to be cautious about it. This is especially true in later chapters.

His hands are slick with it. That’s the first thing he notices once he’s aware of things again. Then comes the smell. The scent of copper hangs in the air like a cloud, ever present and unfading.

 

He stares at his hands, dark with blood, and knows that things have changed.

 

\---

 

The soap bottle on the counter is empty, and the sticky red blood in the shape of a handprint has already hardened over the label. Blood mixed like ink in the water drains, a gentle whirlpool bringing it down slowly.

 

When the water is all gone, there is blood staining the silver of the sink basin.

 

He has killed someone to protect _him_ and the blood on his hands won't be so easily washed away.

 

\---

 

He knows that he isn’t a perfect person. But he’s always believed that he would. . . that he _couldn’t_ do. . .

 

He has always known that if Scott or his dad or even Scott’s mom were in danger, that he would do whatever he had to in order to protect them.

 

Murdering someone who trusted him is a completely different story.

 

\---

 

It’s not as if he and Derek had ever been _Stiles and Derek_. They had never so much as talked about that possibility, let alone acted on it. Stiles hadn’t even _thought_ about it actively before.

 

But when he was faced with the very real possibility that he could be accidentally helping someone take Derek’s life, Stiles knew he had no choice.

 

He acted without a further thought.

 

\---

 

There is a body on the floor of his kitchen. The body is wearing a uniform that’s soaked in blood. It’s just a body now. It can’t do anything to Derek now.

But Stiles isn’t so sure it can’t do a lot to him instead.

 

\---

 

He has panic attack in the kitchen (again?), in the room he has been unable to leave for six hours.

  


In the room with the body of a police officer he’s known all his life. The tan of the uniform is black with blood, like it’s been dipped in ink and left to dry.

 

\---

 

He comes to in the early morning hours, before the sun. The house is cold and silent.

 

There is still a body on the floor near his feet. It hasn’t moved.

 

He doesn’t know what to do.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t remember what happened in the hours leading up to the event.

 

But he notices suddenly that his wrists are bruised and bleeding, and probably have been for hours. There is still a pair of handcuffs dangling from one wrist.

 

How hadn’t he noticed when he ran his hands under the cold water of the kitchen tap?

 

Nothing makes sense anymore.

 

He almost wishes for the oblivion of thinking he killed a man in cold blood to protect someone he loved.

 

\---

 

He continues to stay inside his kitchen, with the body he created pooled in blood. The night fades into daylight slowly, then all at once.

 

He’s not sure he won’t pass out at any time.

 

The handcuffs are still attached. He hasn’t wrapped his wrists.

 

He hasn’t moved more than four feet since he first became aware of the blood on his hands.

Every time he tries, the panic tightens in his chest. And he falls to his knees again.

 

And the cycle starts over.

  


\---

 

He’s not sure how long he stays there before someone finds him. It feels like years.

 

He hears the voice first, a panicked cry.

 

_“Stiles?! Stiles!”_

 

It doesn’t click at first, that the person is calling for him.

 

When he finally tries to call out in response, only a hoarse whisper spills out.

 

\---

 

It’s his dad that finally bursts through the kitchen door after three agonisingly slow minutes with Stiles unable to make himself move.

 

The utter relief on his face at finding Stiles, at meeting his eyes and knowing he’s alive, falls quickly.

 

There is a body on the floor of his kitchen. It’s his dad’s deputy and Stiles has killed him.

 

Stiles passes out again.

 

\---

 

He wakes up in a sluggish haze and his mouth feels like cotton. The antiseptic smell of the hospital merges with the scent memory of thick coppery blood.

 

Before he’s even opened his eyes fully, he throws up all over himself.

 

He has killed someone.

 

A human.

 

\---

 

Moving is hard to do. He’s not sure why. But the blanket covering him is too heavy and he feels like he might suffocate.

 

No one has noticed the mess he’s made all over himself yet, but it’s been several long minutes and he knows he’s probably overdue for a check-up by a nurse.

 

He needs to get the blanket off.

 

Why isn’t his dad here?

 

\---

 

He doesn’t recognise the nurse that comes in, and a panic builds in him until he hyperventilates and the machines attached to him go into a wild frenzy of beeping. The nurse shouts but the words are fuzzy in his ears.

  
He passes out again.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warning is probably necessary for this chapter.  
> \---  
> Let's rewind a little, shall we?

The metal of the police issue handcuffs dig into the skin of his wrists and catch painfully on his wrist bones when he tries to adjust. They're too tight and it hurts.

 

Deputy Krasikeva presses his gun against the underside of his chin. The metal is harsh and cold against his skin.

  
  


"Where is Derek Hale?" He demands again. Stiles tries to steady his breathing and stares stubbornly at the man. The man practically snarls at that and pulls his gun away. Within seconds, he whips the gun against Stiles' cheek in an incredibly painful slap. It's probably not hard enough to break his cheekbones and he knows it'll leave one hell of a bruise at the least. But it's hard enough that he nearly gasps in pain.

  
  


"You don't have to protect that monster, Stiles. He's not your friend."

 

Stiles refuses to respond. An unintentional shift makes his shirt rise up enough that the rope tying him to the chair scrapes harshly against the bruised skin of his stomach.

 

Everything hurts.

 

"He'll snap your neck and leave you in the woods, Stiles. Once he's had his fill of you, you'll die like all the rest."

 

His throat still burns. The belt that had been around his throat is laying on the counter behind his jailer.

 

_It's all  so surreal._

 

"Un... tie me." It hurts to speak, but he doesn't doubt the look in this man's eyes. If he doesn't bluff his way out of this, he's going to die. His dad is going to come home from work to his bloodied corpse next to the oven. And then Derek will die too.

 

"Are you going to talk, Stiles? Tell me where the monster hides out?" Stiles swallows heavily.

 

"Yes."

 

The grin on the deputy's face is nothing short of feral. He takes a knife from the block on the counter and slides it between the rope and his stomach, the dull edge pressing into him. It's terrifying, and Stiles doesn't think he can breathe.

 

The knife saws away at the rope in quick motions, the sharp tip of it scratching and punching holes in the flesh of his stomach at every slice. It _hurts_.  His teeth are clenched so tightly that his jaw aches, but he doesn't want to let out the whimper of pain bubbling up in his chest. His mouth tastes like blood.

 

The pooling blood on his stomach probably isn't enough that he will bleed out, but it's enough to make him worry.

 

* * *

 

This man is deranged.

 

* * *

 

The rope finally gives and the deputy leans down and repeats the process at the rope on his legs. It's faster, and it doesn't cut through his jeans. It’s a relief Stiles hadn’t expected.

 

He lets Stiles stand, hands still handcuffed behind him. He presses his gun hard against Stiles' chest and lets the knife drop to the small table beside Stiles with an echoing clang.

 

"I'm going to flay him alive, you know. I’m going to enjoy every moment of it.”

 

Stiles forces himself to look directly at the man. The deputy lowers his gun towards their feet and stares right back at him.

 

Behind his back, Stiles tries to keep his arms as still as possible as he struggles to unlock the handcuffs. He knows he’s lucky that the deputy didn’t search the pockets of his jeans before he attacked him, didn’t expect Stiles to have a key in his back pocket.

 

His dad told him to always be prepared and that’s something Stiles knows now more than ever is a good thing. He never expected to need the key, but he’s never been happier to have one.

 

“Do you want to watch as I eviscerate him? It will be because of your help, you know.”

 

He has to protect Derek.

 

The click as the handcuffs come unlocked on one wrist echoes through the kitchen. The man’s eyes widen in surprise at the sound, but Stiles has already moved towards the knife before the man can lift his gun.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The bullet that follows grazes his arm.

 

Stiles doesn’t stop the cry of pain from coming out but it doesn’t matter. _He has to protect Derek._

 

The pain comes all at once and everything goes dark.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The handle of the knife is pressing into him when he comes to, the blade still slipped between the deputy’s ribs.

 

There is a man on top of him and he is no longer bleeding. The panic sets in quickly.

 

Stiles pushes up as best as he can, but everything hurts and he’s so weak.

 

 

* * *

 

 

His chest constricts and he can’t breathe.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He comes to in the kitchen, sitting on the floor. His hands and his shirt and his jeans are drenched in dark red blood. He doesn’t know how much is his and how much is. . .

 

He doesn’t know much belongs to the body next to his feet.

 

Everything goes fuzzy again.

 

* * *

 

 

His hands are slick with it. That’s the first thing he notices once he’s aware of things again. Then comes the smell. The scent of copper hangs in the air like a cloud, ever present and unfading.

 


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part takes place directly after part one.

His dad is holding his hand when he wakes up. There is blood smeared on his uniform, a splash under his chin. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy.

 

He’s made his father cry.

 

“Da--” the attempt to speak tears up his throat and it _hurts_.

 

“Don’t talk. Your throat will be sore for awhile. You. . . you were strangled.” He doesn’t remember it. Doesn’t remember much at all before he slid the blade between someone’s ribs and fell beneath the body he left behind.

 

_Why was he strangled?_

 

_The deputy._

 

_Derek._

 

_Where was Derek?_

 

He tries to ask, but his dad shushes him before he can get anything out.

 

“Do you know why--” his dad chokes off his sentence, and moves closer to Stiles when he realises he can’t get the words out. Stiles knows the question anyway. _Do you know why my deputy almost killed you?_

 

“Whe. . . re. . . is. . .” Stiles finally manages to stammer out. His dad tightens his grip on Stiles’ hand.

 

“Scott is in the waiting room with a few of your other friends. They’ve been there for hours.”

 

“De. . . rek?” he finishes, before a coughing fit hits and obliterates the conversation. His dad helps move him into a sitting position and coaxes a handful of ice chips between his lips.

 

He thinks his dad has forgotten the question and wants to ask again, but he’s not sure if he can handle the attempt at speaking.

 

“Who is Derek?” his dad asks. Stiles tries to say Hale, but the word just won’t come. He mouths it several times, hoping his dad will catch on.

 

“Derek _Hale_? Why would you want to know where Derek Hale is?” Stiles is fairly certain that his dad hasn’t even realised how loud his voice is by the end of it.

 

Melissa McCall walks in before Stiles can even think of another way to ask.

 

“Stiles! You’re awake. Are you in any pain?” He shakes his head, despite the fact that his throat still hurts and his wrists are a little sore. He doesn’t want any more pain meds--even if he normally would.

 

He needs to know if Derek is okay.

 

“If you’re sure, hon. Do you want me to send Scott in to see you?” her voice is soothing, but seeing Scott is not what he wants right now.

 

“Der...” he only manages the first syllable before the pain is too much and he can’t help but whimper. The whimper hurts as much as the words.

 

“I’m going to up your meds, Stiles. Do you want me to ask about Derek for you?”

 

He nods gratefully, trying to ignore the incredibly confused look on his dad’s face. His dad waits until Melissa leaves to comment.

 

“I thought you barely knew Derek Hale.” His dad’s voice is half concern and half anger. He can’t blame him. Stiles can’t think of a way to respond.

 

And once again, he doesn’t have to. Scott comes in a moment later, heading right for the bed.

 

“Dude, my mom told me I only had a minute. But seriously, you want me to call Derek for you?”

Scott, the master of tact, doesn’t even realise that his dad is in the room until after he finishes speaking.

 

“What does Derek Hale have to do with my son being in the hospital?” Scott cowers a little.

 

“Well, that I don’t actually know? I mean, Stiles and Derek are kind of. . . friends?” Scott finishes, wincing at Stiles’ face.

 

“Friends?” His dad asks. Stiles closes his eyes and breathes slowly.

 

“I’m going to go call Derek now.” Stiles can hear the door open and shut as Scott leaves.

 

“What is going on with you, kid? You almost got killed last night. What has Derek got you into, Stiles?”

 

Stiles blinks his eyes open at his father’s words. He’s a little bit angry for Derek even though he knows his father is just worried about him.

 

“Pen?” The word causes him to cough again, and several minutes pass before his father gets up to find him something to write with.

 

Stiles is not sure what he’s going to tell his father, but he needs to explain _something_.

  
 **_It’s not Derek’s fault._ **


	4. Part Four

The past few weeks have been blissfully quiet. There hasn’t been an animal attack or murder in some time, and it’s beautiful outside.

 

Stiles would actually count the days since someone was attacked or died, but he’d really prefer pretending he isn’t already keeping track.

 

So Stiles feels safe (and comfortably warm) when he drives to the grocery store without double checking that his baseball bat is in the passenger seat of the jeep.

 

It’s a mistake.

 

Feeling safe is a mistake.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is hauling a heavy bag from the cart to the back seat when Deputy Krasikeva places a hand on the cart. He doesn’t notice at first, since he’s facing his jeep and not the cart.

 

Something about the toothy grin the deputy is flashing him makes the pit of his stomach sink and his chest burn.

 

It’s _wrong_.

 

“Can I help you, Deputy?” Stiles asks, grabbing the last bag from his cart. The deputy raises an eyebrow, his fist tightening around the thin metal of the cart. Stiles tries to focus on his face.

 

“Where is Derek Hale?” The man asks, his eyes suddenly hard.

 

“Why would I know where he is?” Stiles asks, trying to keep his face as even as possible.

 

The entire situation feels wrong.

 

“You spent six hours with him in the preserve yesterday, _Stiles_. I watched you go in with him and I watched you leave with him. Now tell me. _Where is Derek Hale_?”

 

“Dude, I don’t have any idea where Derek--”

 

Stiles stops as the deputy pulls out his taser, eyes widening in fear.

 

“Where. Is. Derek. Hale?” the deputy repeats. Stiles backs up, reaching behind him in vain for the baseball bat that isn’t there.

 

He hits his head against the jeep hard enough to smear blood against it when the taser strikes him, once, twice.

 

He passes out where he slumps against the passenger seat, dropping the bag on the hard cement of the grocery store parking lot. A handful of oranges bounce out, rolling under the jeep and continuing on.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up in the back of Deputy Krasikeva’s cruiser, his hands handcuffed behind him. There's a gag in his mouth and it tastes like a washcloth used and left to air dry. His head feels fuzzy, and he doesn't immediately remember how he ended up where he's at.

 

He struggles to sit up, his head heavy and throbbing. It doesn’t work very well, dizziness pulling him in separate directions until all he can manage is to fall against the door weakly.

 

The cruiser pulls to a stop outside a decrepit old house, the yellow paint on the siding and the blue paint on the shutters peeling to the degree that makes it creepy. It looks vaguely familiar, but he’s not even sure why.

 

Deputy Krasikeva spares only a quick glance in either direction before he slips out and heads inside. Stiles watches from his spot against the door weakly, his breath casting brief, warm wet fog clouds against the cool glass of the cruiser’s window.

 

He’s struggling to fully sit up for close to five minutes when he spots Tara walking her dog down the street. He screams out for her to help, and the german shepherd at her side perks his head in his direction.

 

He’s still yelling for help when Krasikeva yanks him backward by the collar and slaps a hand over his mouth hard enough that he accidentally bites his tongue, the blood pooling in his mouth. Panic builds in his chest and he struggles, and he doesn’t see it coming.

 

Stiles is too weak to pull the belt away from his throat, but he tries anyway.

 

Everything fades to black slowly and the last thing he sees is Tara Graeme running his direction with wide eyes, her dog bolting ahead of her with his leash trailing behind him. The last thing he hears is the shot of a gun.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry about how long this took. The last chapter should be much faster (and longer!), as it's partially written already. Please don't hesitate to yell at me if it takes awhile!
> 
> Check out my [ tumblr.](http://writerdragonfly.tumblr.com)


	5. Part Five

_“You can’t just go in there! You haven’t been--”_

_“I don’t care!”_

 

The second voice is Derek, and Stiles lets out a heavy breath in relief.

 

Derek is _okay_.

 

* * *

 

_“Stiles.”_

 

There is a layer of desperation in Derek’s voice. Stiles watches as he walks into the room.

 

His dad tells the officer at the door to let Derek in, and the man obeys.

 

Derek makes it to his bed fairly quickly, and immediately takes in the bruises and bandages that cover him.

 

“What happened?”

 

“He can’t talk right now, Hale. But you were the first person he asked for. Care to tell me why?” His dad asks Derek, crossing his arms across his chest and lifting an unimpressed eyebrow.  

 

Derek startles, as if he hadn’t noticed his dad there. And that, that to Stiles, says a lot about how worried he must have been. And that makes him feel a little strange. But not a bad strange, just... strange.

 

“I don’t... know why. Who did this to him?” Derek isn’t looking at his father when he asks, but right at Stiles instead.

 

“It’s an open case and if I find out you were involved--”

 

“ _Dad_.” Stiles coughs immediately after, unable to stop himself. His dad helps him sit up a little further, rubs his back. And Derek just _watches_. He looks scared.

 

He’s finally leaned back when a wave of pain courses through his body, sharp and agonizing. Derek rushes forward at his wince of pain and puts a hand on his, the veins of his arm blackening with the pull. It doesn’t go unnoticed by his father, who stares at Derek’s arm and follows it up to his face, twisted with pain. Stiles sighs back into his pillows, relaxing more than he’d been able to in the time since he’d first woken up in the hospital.

 

He wants to reassure his dad that he’s okay, that everything will be okay. He wants to tell him the truth for the first time in a long time, and he wants to...

 

But he can’t summon the strength to keep his eyes open, and falls asleep instead.

 

* * *

 

Stiles wakes up to his dad's hand over his, the man asleep in the chair beside the bed. He looks wholly uncomfortable, but Stiles is glad he’s there.

 

“He’s been sleeping for almost half an hour,” Derek tells him, and Stiles doesn’t jump at his voice. He _doesn’t_.

 

“Did... you tell... him?” Stiles manages to get out before he starts coughing. Derek is at his side swiftly, patting his back with little taps that don’t technically help but go a long way in making Stiles feel better, sapping the pain of his rattling cough with his hand.

 

“About werewolves? Yes. I know it’s not what you wanted...”

 

Stiles feels around for something to write on, finding a dry erased board at the foot of his bed that he doesn't remember having.

__

_**Will you help me keep him safe?** _

 

Derek looks at him then, just stares. And it feels heavy, like it’s about more than just him but about him and Derek and StilesandDerek and he doesn’t know what to do here.

 

“Of course,” is what Derek says. Of course.

 

_**Thank you.** _

 

“You don’t need to thank me, Stiles.”

 

But he does. Stiles does need to thank him. He needs Derek to know that he’s grateful in a way that he can’t even put to words.

 

Derek moves to leave when his dad blinks awake a minute later. Before he can escape, Stiles writes on his board again.

 

_**Will you stay?** _

  
And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me! This story was never supposed to go past the three days, and ending it was hard.
> 
> As it is, there may be a oneshot sequel at some point. Things that didn't make it into NSEE because it didn't match the pace or the three day timeline--like what happens next? 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this. Thanks for reading!


End file.
